


Under Layer

by Amand_r



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 17:34:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love handles, whatever, they ruin the cut of his suits, and he wouldn't care, but something about seeing the wrinkled waistbands makes him a little sad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Layer

**Author's Note:**

> From the kink meme prompt: Jack/Ianto; Ianto gains weight, just this side of plump, and Jack gets off on it.

The worst part is that now his trouser waists fold over his belt on the sides, just a little. Love handles, whatever, they ruin the cut of his suits, and he wouldn't care, but something about seeing the wrinkled waistbands makes him a little sad.

He makes changes. He watches his food intake (beer and whiskey intake, too; they don't call it a beer gut for nothing), and he starts to exercise, which is, all being told, easier said than done. Because the last thing he wants to do at the end of a sixteen-hour day is throw on some old clothes and run about the neighbourhood, or even worse, go to a gym filled with perfect bodies, perfect because they have time and energy to work out instead of saving the universe from aliens day in and day out.

And another thing, he thinks, is the supreme irony that in a job as stressful as his, and which involves as much punching and shooting as his, he _doesn't_ naturally stay slim. Because while there's occasional running, there's a lot more punching and other immobile things like sedentary and yet adrenaline-filled hacking and the like, the lifting of bodies. He's good at lifting bodies. He's got that heavy-muscled upper build that bricklayers or miners get where there's slabs of muscle under a layer of fat.

Bah.

Ianto folds his trousers and stands in front of the mirror. Without clothes it's easier for everything to smooth out. He sucks in his gut and holds it, then blows out and distends his belly so that it's larger than it is normally. Like a "it could look like this" way. There's no disguising the love handles. They round above his hips just enough that he wonders why anyone would call them love handles.

Okay, this is being fattist, isn't it? Ianto doesn't mind extra weight on other people. In fact he's been to the doctor recently, he was in the exam room and used the chart to calculate his BMI whilst waiting, so he knows about heights and weights and bone structure etc, etc. His first girlfriend had been plump, and he had to admit that he likes rounded curves on a woman. His mates call it other things, most of them just this side of crude, but he's got a soft spot for large breasts and hips and the dimples in the flesh above the buttocks in the back when a woman has weight on her. He gets it, he really does.

It's that it's _him_ , not someone else. It doesn't fit with his image as suave, svelte secret agent. International man of mystery. He wants to be Connery circa 1965, not Connery 1995.

Still, it's inevitable, isn't it? Metabolism slows, sedentary life, poor eating, too much alcohol. God he's not a doctor and he knows what Owen would say to him. If Owen were still alive, he'd still be skinny as a bean pole and drinking like a fish. Bastard.

And then there's Jack. Jack's built, not like a rippling abs-man, but a damn sight thinner than Ianto at this point, and Ianto is sure that if he ever walks in on him in the loo when he's on the scale he'll have to shoot him in the head and retcon him to keep him from saying something about Ianto's weight. So he locks the door.

This time though, for whatever reason, Jack opens the door without the slightest issue (Ianto makes a note to check for jimmy screwdrivers in the vicinity later) and catches him. "Oh, is _this_ what you do when the door is locked? I thought you were wanking, or looking at something sexy."

Ianto rolls his eyes. "What could I be looking at that I would want to hide from you? Certainly not porn."

Jack shrugs and considers. "Brochures for the priesthood? That's kind of sexy, though, all those men living together." He tilts his head. "Unless you were actually serious about being called by God, in which case I'd want to scan you for those Braxxaxxaxax parasites again."

Ianto steps off the scale and kicks it to the back of the space between the sink and the toilet. "I told you, I'm clean. No aural hallucinations."

Jack leans against the doorway, arms crossed. He's shed his clothes, he had the moment he'd walked though Ianto's door (Ianto's, he argues, is a clothes-free zone, regardless of what he is doing), and Ianto washes his face with a damp flannel, peeking at Jack's trim waist behind him in the mirror. His face is a mask of something, and Ianto wonders what his arse looks like from behind. He isn't worried, not really; he has a fabulous arse.

He does, however, have gray hair at his temples. Bollocks.

Jack doesn't say anything until they lie down in bed fifteen minutes later and Ianto finishes setting the alarm (if he leaves for work an hour early, he can jog there, and shower and change in the locker room. That will be his exercise in a day looking to be filled with filing, processing, and possibly a takeaway lunch squeezed into the crammed mayhem.). Jack's body plasters itself to his own, some sort of parasite seeking to feed from his energy or something, leg thrown over his knees, right arm over his chest, left arm trapped under his body.

"You know," Jack says, "when you were younger, years ago," he starts, "You had longer hair, and it was darker." Ianto's eyes cut to the window and the generous sliver of moon seeping through the clouds. "You were thinner, lighter." Jack stops then. Fingers tangle in Ianto's chest hair and tug, then slide up to his chin to turn his face so that he is forced to look into his eyes. "Gaunt and hungry." His eyes get too close to focus on when he presses his lips in for a kiss, a kiss that is in itself quite hungry, too.

"People change," Jack says, his hand leaving Ianto's throat and sliding down to ride the slight curve of Ianto's stomach, over to the side to map out the extra weight there. "It suits you, you know."

Ianto snorts, then grunts when Jack grabs onto the flesh there and holds it. It feels exposed, naked, that Jack would recognise it, point it out, as if he is marking it with a magic marker as a blemish, something imperfect. He doesn't point to all of Jack's physical imperfections and hold them up to the light...not that there are many, but still, it's not done.

"It's hot," Jack says, "that you're hard," he pauses so that he can grab Ianto's betraying cock and the bicep of one arm, still quite muscled (carrying bodies, of course). "And soft." Jack squeezes again but slips under the covers so that he can kiss his way down Ianto's chest to his stomach and bite at the fat there. Jack's hand on his cock is pulsing a beat out and pulling at his foreskin, and he gasps, his own hands reaching for Jack's hair, anything else he can touch--a shoulder, the shell of an ear, Jack's lips when he turns his head to suck Ianto's thumb into his mouth.

"Jack-"

"I don't say gorgeous to unman you, Ianto," Jack whispers, just loud enough that the words could trail up from under the covers and into his ear. "But it's true, because it's..." The hand reaches down and cups his balls and Ianto fairly shoots up in the bed from the hips, giving Jack access to his thighs and arse when he grasps a knee and bends it, propping Ianto's legs up so that he can spread them. Ianto can't see him under the covers in the dark, but Jack's hands knead the soft flesh of his inner thigh, spread his arse and then he licks the skin from arse to balls. Ianto runs his own fingers over Jack's hair, but that's all he can reach until Jack grabs one of his hands and covers it, his mouth still sucking Ianto's balls. He forces Ianto's hand up and over his belly, presses his fingers into the flesh there, soft, but if he presses further in, he can feel the hard plane of muscle there. Jack slides up over the hands, pressing them into Ianto with his own weight.

"Hey, we still fit, right?"

Ianto lets Jack press his face into the hollow of his neck, his legs working to settle into the curve of Ianto's spread legs. His own cock brushes Jack's and he grunts, pressing up with as much of his body as he can get to leave the bed.

"I don't think a little weight is going to prevent that," Ianto says as dryly as he can manage when Jack has taken them both in his hands and is working them together, a little rough and dry this way but god, he's not opposed to a little pain. Jack's one free hand props him up so that he's not completely resting on Ianto, and his mouth leaves Ianto's neck finally and licks its way up the jaw. Ianto isn't ready to claim that he's just going to lie here like a lump, so he tries to lift Jack off the bed as much as he can (not completely altruistic on his part), and with his hands he finds Jack's arse, his back and the curve of it, the dimples above Jack's arse that he can punch between thumb and finger.

"Speaking of weight," he says, and Jack squeezes his cock. "You seem to have some-ugnf."

Jack laughs. "Get over it, Jones," he says, slipping away to make a return visit down Ianto front so that he can slide his mouth down on Ianto's cock in one stroke. Ianto barely has time to register the tongue on the underside when Jack's mouth pulls away. He's going to talk in the middle of sex. It's an infuriating habit. "But if you have a problem with it, we could always jog to work together tomorrow." Jack is halfway down on Ianto's cock when he pulls off again. "Of course, that would mean that we should just go to sleep, since we have to get up so early-"

"Jack."

Jack chuckles. "Or we could just work out now."

END


End file.
